A SCARE IN CONNEMARA.
IN TWO CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER I.
It was on a dull sultry afternoon in July 1869, that my friend Morrissy and I found ourselves comfortably located in the commercial room of one of the hotels in Westport, County Mayo, Ireland, after a long uninteresting car-ride from Sligo and Ballina. The excellent turnpike road ran through a flat boggy district; and as we had journeyed along through dense clouds of dust, it was with an infinite sense of relief that we disencumbered ourselves of our wraps and other travelling impedimenta, and prepared ourselves for the substantial dinner which was placed on the table for our refection.
To those of our readers who are unacquainted with the ‘long-cars’ used in moving about from one town to another, and especially in the west of Ireland, where the climate is somewhat exhaustive from its excessive humidity, a journey upon these public conveniences has its fascinations as well as its drawbacks; for in going through the country on these vehicles, you can always, excepting in stormy or dusty weather, insure capital views of the scenery of the district, pick up a gossiping acquaintance with your fellow-travellers, readily command the local information in the possession of your charioteer, and be alternately amused and annoyed at one time with his legendary and romantic stories, and at another with his sarcastic reflections on the ‘misgovernment’ of the country since it came under a dominion not entirely its own. An Irish car-driver always appears to me to be a strikingly representative type of the Milesian race. He is impulsive and rash, credulous and wildly poetical, with a dash of superstition and romance in his character, and a constantly recurring lament for the ‘good old times’ that prevailed when Brian Borru was king. At the same time, he is an excellent compagnon de voyage, and if he is properly treated and humoured, will pour out for your delectation quite a flood of antiquarian, genealogical, historical, and legendary lore, appertaining to the country in which you are, and the noteworthy objects around you.
Morrissy and I were joined at dinner by a fellow-tourist who had travelled on the car from Ballina; and as this gentleman is the principal hero of the little adventure I am about to relate, it is necessary I should put the reader in possession of some particulars respecting him. His appearance was both striking and peculiar. At the Ballina car-office he was very anxious about the disposition of his luggage. This property consisted of a rifle-case, a long wooden trunk which he said contained his ‘fixings,’ a hat-case of leather, several other boxes which sadly taxed the carrying capacity of the car, and quite a miscellaneous collection of parcels and wrappers. Though only standing some five feet eight inches in height, he was strongly built, and of good muscular development, his complexion having somewhat suffered from a long-continued residence in America. He wore a conical-shaped wide-awake of green felt; his gold watch, which with its appurtenances of seals and lockets, was frequently prominently and somewhat ostentatiously displayed, bore on the reverse the harp of Ireland beautifully enamelled on a green background; and he carried a small pocket pistol in the breast of his waistcoat. He had previously told us that his name was John Hanlon; that he had left Ireland in consequence of a little political trouble, some twenty years previously; that he was now a prosperous floor-cloth manufacturer at Baltimore, and that he was paying a long-cherished visit to his native country previous to his final settlement in the transatlantic land of his adoption. Mr Hanlon somewhat surprised me by the freedom of speech he indulged in on all subjects that cropped up for discussion on the road, and I could only explain it on the hypothesis that his lengthened sojourn in America, and the liberal toleration of political questions there enjoyed by all classes, had lent to his ordinary conversation a fluency and a license which were comparatively unknown in our more cautious latitude. Hanlon evidently considered himself a citizen of the Great Republic, and was certainly far from restricted in the expression of his sentiments on subjects ranging from the latest Democratic ticket in his adopted state, to the question of greater political and social freedom for his fatherland.
My friend Bryan Morrissy possessed many traits of character and feeling in common with Mr Hanlon, and consequently it was not at all extraordinary to find that they almost immediately struck up a close intimacy. Morrissy, a somewhat slimly-built fellow of six feet, was a County Waterford man; and his fervent poetical and patriotic temperament was so strongly displayed during the troubles in Tipperary in 1848, that he judged it expedient for the good of his health to make a somewhat sudden voyage to New York. Finding many sympathetic friends in Cork, he was one fine night quietly smuggled on board an outward-bound vessel at Queenstown; and in a month he found himself at Castle Gardens, on Manhattan Island, with a couple of sovereigns in his pocket, three shirts, a Sunday suit, and letters of introduction to a number of Irish Nationalists in the cosmopolitan city of New York. For a couple of months he led a very active life of unprofitable energy, his time mainly occupied in addressing huge meetings; but at length he got disgusted with the game of politics, so unblushingly played there by mercenary ‘patriots;’ and as he saw no prospect of succeeding in his business as a counting-house clerk, he slipped over to England; and finding that the pursuit of the Young Ireland conspirators had been judiciously relaxed, he took a post as a store-manager in a Yorkshire manufacturing town which I shall call Fleeceborough, and for a number of years devoted himself so closely and assiduously to his essentially prosaic duties, that even the new acquaintances—of whom I was one—who gathered around him, scarcely realised how deep were his convictions on certain ‘burning questions’ of national sentiment connected with his own country, and at what great hazard he had, at an earlier period of his life, advocated and compromised himself by his enunciation of those opinions.
Considered as a warm friend and a lively and entertaining acquaintance, Morrissy was everything that one could wish; and as he was well versed in ancient as well as contemporary history, and had an appreciative acquaintance with the modern poets, especially such as Byron, Burns, Moore, and Campbell, whose aspirations after liberty were warm and fervent, his company was highly appreciated by the little earnest band of embryo publicists among whom he found himself in the radical town of Fleeceborough. By his outdoor political speeches and harangues in America, he had contracted severe colds, which ultimately somewhat affected his hearing—an ailment afflicting enough in itself, but which had its occasional benefits, a salient example of which will be seen in the further progress of this narrative.
Coming to myself, as the third of the party, I may briefly inform the reader that my name is Robert Talbot, that I am generally accounted a pleasant and fairly informed acquaintance, rather given to punning and other word-dislocating frivolities, though esteemed for my patience as a good listener, and as one who generally appreciates any smart or witty remark made by another. In fact my habit of preserving these good conversational things is so strong that it has been my practice to ‘take them down in black and white;’ and as they sometimes crop up and out on seasonable and auspicious occasions, I have got myself generally known by the name of ‘the repeater.’ And it was during a pleasure excursion through the highlands of Connemara that Morrissy and I thus became acquainted with Mr John Hanlon, floor-cloth manufacturer, of Baltimore, United States.
Dinner passed pleasantly enough at the Westport hotel. The provision was bountiful and miscellaneous in its character, and we chatted over the table as if we had been acquainted for years. When the cloth had been removed, Morrissy and Hanlon drew themselves more confidentially together, and soon commenced exchanging reminiscences of the ‘affair of 1848,’ over a jug of whisky-punch. In the earlier hours of the evening their conversation was quiet and decorous enough, but with the interchange of mutual confidences, the narration of mutually interesting incidents connected with the ‘rising,’ and the frequent appeals to the inspiriting liquor which the constantly replenished ‘Toby’ supplied, they soon became more cosy, and began to fight their patriotic battles over again in strains more hearty and convivial than ordinary sobriety would have warranted.
Another person had by this time joined the party. Although a complete stranger to ourselves, he was evidently well known to the people at the hotel, for the waiters treated him with a certain deference for which I was unable to account. Although plainly and respectably dressed in a kind of frieze cut-away suit, these clothes did not seem to sit comfortably and naturally upon him; and when he rose to procure a light for his pipe or to ring the bell for another supply of punch, he paced the room with a habit of precision and regularity that somehow suggested to me that he must at one time of his life have been in the army. The waiters were somewhat obsequious in their attention to his orders, called him with emphasis ‘Mister Doolan,’ and appeared to hold him in a certain degree of respect, if not of absolute fear. Mister Doolan paid particular regard to the conversation of my Irish friends Morrissy and Hanlon; and if at any time the continuity of their narratives appeared likely to be broken in favour of subjects more generally interesting to myself as an Englishman, I noticed that he was at extraordinary pains to bring it back to the point at which I had broken in upon their talk, and to induce them to resume the story of their experiences.
As I was very tired with the jolting motion of the car—a species of locomotion with which I had been previously unfamiliar—I soon afterwards retired to rest; but even after I had got to bed in the room above, I could hear my friends below in the full flight of conversation, not only on the past of Ireland, but in somewhat hazy prophecies as to the future of their beloved country. To the music of this harmonious but disturbing concert, relieved at times by the more measured and careful utterances of Mister Doolan, I listened for a time, until the voices became a monotonous drone in my sleepy ear; and then I sank into the elysium of sleep, a paradise doubly grateful to me after the fatiguing incidents of the day, and the consciousness that though I was in a strange land I was neither alone nor unbefriended.
As some of my readers will be aware, Ireland was at this time suffering in the throes of the Fenian agitation. Not only was a deep patriotic feeling prevalent among honest Irishmen, but the national spirit was also being moved strongly and passionately by the Irish Americans, who were quietly invading the country, and making large and extravagant promises of American support to another rising against English rule. The extraordinary enthusiasm manifested by Irish men and women at that time settled in the United States; and the heartiness with which money was subscribed by all classes of the community, from the middle classes down to the humblest labourers of both sexes, still arrests the attention of the historian, and excites his surprise that enthusiasm so general in its character should have so powerfully impressed the children of Erin who peacefully sojourned in a distant land. The fact remains that for some time Ireland was seething like a restricted volcano, the under-current of patriotism being deep, earnest, and general. Government at length awoke to the seriousness of the crisis, and after a long period of inaction, the English officials came to the conclusion that not only was sedition rife in that unhappy country of Ireland, but that a great proportion of the mischief was directly traceable to Irish-American agents, who with military titles and the nucleus of military organisations, were constantly landing on her shores. It was not, however, until the English government found that chests and packages of arms and munitions of war were being systematically despatched to and distributed through a large range of the country, that they fairly took the alarm, and began to exercise a stricter supervision over the arrival of American Hibernians in Ireland, and took measures for obtaining careful information of the movements of such disaffected persons as had already procured a footing in the country. Not only were the soldiery placed on the alert, but that semi-military organisation, the Irish constabulary, had also instructions to scrutinise carefully the persons and movements of strangers and travellers in the interior of the country. These regulations, of a repressive as well as detective character, were in full force in certain wild and disturbed districts at the time that Morrissy and I were taking our peaceful excursion; and they were the means of bringing about the curious imbroglio I am now about to describe.
When I descended to the coffee-room next morning, I did not find either of my companions of the previous night. As they had not evidently yet slept off the fumes of the whisky-punch, I strolled down to the beach of Clew Bay, and was soon drinking in not only the fine mountain and sea breeze, but also the wild but charming scenery of that fine district. Leaving behind me the desolate ruined warehouses which told the mournful story of the past, when Westport was indeed the western harbour of Ireland, I saw in the near distance the placid waters of the bay, studded with its numerous and picturesque islets; whilst to the left—rearing itself in savage majesty over the waters—frowned the Reek of Croagh Patrick, the sacred mountain of the district, and up the craggy sides of which, pilgrimages to the stone hut of St Patrick are still regularly made. The light haze resting upon the sea and the cloudy vapour that encircled the summit of Croagh Patrick, appeared destined soon to give way before the western breeze, that already curled the surface of the bay into miniature waves and lent a refreshing fragrance to the morning air. But though thus inspirited by the ramble, I could not help thinking with some uneasiness of the dangerously outspoken language both Morrissy and Hanlon had been using when in their cups; though I had heard so much of the proverbial good-fellowship of the Irish character, that I was reluctant to bring myself to the conviction that any such loose talk would be unfavourably brought up against them. At the same time, considering the state of the country and the many warnings on the subject of political discussion which I had received in Dublin, I could not avoid regretting that the conversation had taken such a dangerous direction, feeling assured that if any of the police or military authorities had been in the Commercial Room at the time, they would have been bound to notice what Morrissy and Hanlon might call ‘patriotic talk,’ but which other keen protectors of law and order might designate as seditious and treasonable utterances. It was while thus engaged in chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancy that I again found myself at the door of the hotel, in front of which was already standing the long-car on which we purposed journeying that day to Clifden.
I found both Morrissy and Hanlon in the coffee-room awaiting my appearance. The breakfast table was profusely laden with substantial delicacies; but though I was ready enough for that meal, I could see at a glance that my companions were not equally prepared. Both looked sheepish enough in all conscience, and on the principle that if you feel ill you must take ‘a hair of the dog that bit you,’ each of them had a suspicious-looking glass of ‘mountain-dew’ at his elbow. Neither seemed inclined for eating, and I therefore had the breakfast-table much to myself. I tried to interest them by describing the delightful walk I had enjoyed to the bay, but was unable to galvanise either life or spirit into them. My only hope was that the fresh keen sea-air and the rushing excitement of the car-ride might by-and-by restore them to their wonted physical and mental equilibrium.
As the weather had by this time cleared up, and there was every prospect of a fine pleasant journey of forty miles to Clifden, through the heart of the Connemara mountains, the car filled rapidly that morning, partly with visitors like ourselves and partly with residents in the district. Within the latter category evidently came two fine-looking undoubted Irishmen, who took their seats on my side of the conveyance, and who interested me by their conversation and evident familiarity with the sights of the neighbourhood. They were well though plainly dressed, and evidently devoted themselves to the task of engaging me in talk of a nature innocent enough in itself, but which later on grew somewhat irksome and suspicious. Morrissy and Hanlon were on the other side of the car; and just as it was about to start, our friend Doolan came up in a bit of a hurry, and took the vacant seat which had been left unoccupied by their side. Doolan, who was spruce and collected enough, and who looked as fresh as a daisy, gave me a half-familiar nod, and then exchanged the compliments of the day with my friends. It struck me that Hanlon received his approaches in a half-sullen, half-distant manner, but that I set down to my latent suspicions respecting the man; and as the car rattled gaily over the road to Leenane, and I heard little bursts of laughter and apparently racy jests exchanged by that party, I felt ashamed of the apprehension by which I was still haunted.
The route, at first direct south, curved a little westward as we approached Killery Bay, through the mountainous, land-locked, tortuous courses of which the Atlantic was now rolling in magnificent grandeur. I was entranced with the first view of this fine picture, embracing high rugged rocks overhanging the bay, with a stern range of mountains in the north-west, and a splendid natural harbour in which the navy of England might safely ride, protected from all winds except the west. My enthusiasm increased as we neared Leenane, which pretty little village nestled snugly and picturesquely at the head of Killery, and where we stopped to change horses. Here Mr Doolan alighted, somewhat to my surprise; though I fancied a look of intelligence passed between him and the two Irishmen with whom I had been in conversation. In answer to my question as to whether he was not going farther with us, he quietly remarked that he had a little business in the neighbourhood, but that he would be seeing us again in the course of the day. I noticed that Doolan turned up an avenue leading to a gentleman’s house; and on asking the driver who resided in that fine mansion, was somewhat dryly told that ‘it was the country residence of Mr Sarsfield, a magistrate.’